


Jesse Eats a Casserole

by opalescentdaydream



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Breaking Bad Season 3, Comfort, Comfort Food, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Happy Jesse Pinkman, Jesse Pinkman Gets to Go to Sleep, Literal Sleeping Together, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Other, POV Second Person, Platonic Relationships, Reader-Insert, Sober Jesse Pinkman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalescentdaydream/pseuds/opalescentdaydream
Summary: super self-indulgent reader and Jesse -Reader feeds Jesse a good meal for once and he gets to go to bed early. Platonic.Takes place around the beginning of Season 3, after rehab and Jane, before Gale.
Relationships: Jesse Pinkman & Reader, Jesse Pinkman/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Jesse Eats a Casserole

You are Jesse Pinkman’s best friend.

He visits you on his three-month anniversary of sobriety. His eyes are red and the bags beneath them are dark as bruises. You know he’s working, you know it’s drugs, and you know not to ask any further questions. Really, as long as he comes home breathing and injury-free, you don’t care.

“Hey, man. What’s cookin’?” Jesse asks. He throws his sweat jacket over the back of your couch. Underneath, Jesse wears a Wu Tang shirt and ripped jeans that mostly fit him.

You tell him it’s one of his favorites: baked macaroni and cheese, layered with bacon bits and occasionally, chili powder. If there’s anything you know he misses, it’s his signature flavor. The oven timer counts fifteen minutes remaining.

Jesse raises his eyebrows. “Seriously? Wow, you pulled out all the stops, man.”

He smiles and flops into one of your dining chairs, propping his feet on the chair adjacent. The dining table and most of your countertops are cluttered with cheese-coated dishes, aside from those already waiting in the sink. You pile a few more in just to clear some table space - hopefully enough for the two of you to eat here and not in the living room. Special occasions mean using the “real” table, even if you bought it at Goodwill for fifty bucks. Late afternoon sunlight runs through the kitchen window and glints in Jesse’s eyes. They crinkle around their edges.

You pass him an ice-cold beer while you wait. Jesse takes it in one hand and with the other, points at the moisture collecting on the bottle’s surface. “That’s condensation,” he says, “Bet you didn’t know the word for that, right?”

You laugh, and ask what else he can tell you.

Jesse takes a swig. “It’s good beer.”

Good, you tell him. You want him to feel like it’s a real celebration, because it is.

“I mean, three months isn’t that long—”

It’s more than two months. It’s more than one month. It’s more than a week. It’s more than a day. That’s an accomplishment.

Jesse nods. He stares into his lap. “Alright, you got me.”

A silence passes between you. He’s peeling the beer’s label with his thumbs. The glue and paper are disintegrating beneath him. You wonder if he’s thinking about Jane, or about the cigarette in his car that’s still wearing her lipstick. Maybe Emilio, even. He barely told you what happened to his old partner, but you know he feels guilty. He’s probably going to feel guilty as long as he keeps breathing while the dead are somewhere beyond. If he would just go to those grief counseling groups, maybe—but you don’t want to bring that up again. Rehab seemed to help, you think. And you can’t be another force in his life telling him he’s doing it all wrong. You won’t.

The timer dings and you both jolt. Equipped with your oven mitts, you manage to pull the 13x9 Pyrex dish (borrowed, your mother’s) free, and heft it onto the stove. The macaroni’s gone golden brown on top. You can see the cheese bubbling through the sides, gooey and warm. It feels like home and you haven’t even eaten it yet. That’s all you want for Jesse always, but especially in this moment.

You give the casserole five or so minutes to cool down. In the meantime, you thumb wrestle for the last beer; loser has to drink the two-week-old Diet Coke in the fridge door. Best three out of five. Best five out of seven. Best seven out of nine. Another ten minutes goes by in the blink of two thumbs duking it out, and you’re declared the thumb wrestling champ.

You accuse Jesse of throwing it. How could he lose that many times when his hands are bigger than yours?

“Woah, are you calling me a cheater?” Jesse asks. He grins like he makes deals with the devil. “You think I want to drink that shit? It’s been flat for a week and a half, minimum.”

Underdog’s luck, you decide.

Jesse watches you stab the casserole into squares with your spatula. As you work, strings of cheese drag behind you and catch on your sleeve. You get out the fine china, your Corelle plates and three-dollar silverware from Target. You know, the classy stuff. Once you’ve lobbed two servings onto platters and handed Jesse a paper napkin, it’s time to dig in.

Jesse sips his flat soda in between bites. He says, “You know this is like, really good. Like, really really good.”

Yeah? You hoped it would be.

“Yeah. Like, I’m leaving with it, it’s that good.” He smiles, lips closed, cheeks full.

As you chew, you say he didn’t have to put his feet down; there are two other chairs you could sit in.

Jesse shakes his head, “Nah, man, we should sit together. You made dinner and all, I’m not gonna kick you from your own chair.”

The sunlight dips as evening sinks into your cul-de-sac. You turn on the kitchen light, though two out of four bulbs are burnt. Almost like candlelight, you say and Jesse snorts a laugh. Before you know it, your forks are scraping plate. You stuff Jesse with a second helping.

“How’d you know?” he asks though he’s already digging in. It was your...intuition. And the dead weightlessness in his eyes that scares you. And that food is all you can think to give him.

Once he clears that, too, he leans back in his chair like he could fall asleep right there. A warm lull hugs you. It’s almost as satisfying as the pit of carbs and cheese burning in your stomach. You sip your second beer. You guess there’s a little more than half left and you pass it to Jesse. He doesn’t notice – his head is lolled backwards while he naps.

He stays that way while you wash up. You don’t do a great job of it. Leaving most of the dishes to soak (when you don’t really believe in soaking dishes) is not your finest moment. You’re snapping the lid on the casserole dish when Jesse wakes himself up with his own snore.

He drags a bony, tattooed hand down his face. “How long was I out?”

Maybe half an hour.

“Aw man, you cleaned up? I coulda helped.”

Hey, it was Jesse’s big night. You tell him all he needed to do was eat and chill, which he definitely did.

Still, he’s sorry. Too sorry. He tries to get into the sink and clean up what’s left, but you bodyblock him. He fakes right, goes left, and still you guard these chores with your life. It takes threats of barf-worthy niceness and disgusting amounts of kind, gentle love to make Jesse back down. But, eventually, you get him onto your sofa. It’s getting late (eight-thirty) and Jesse’s been drinking (one beer, a couple hours ago) so he better crash here tonight.

Jesse scoffs, “I’m three months sober and suddenly I don’t know how to drive in the dark?”

You grind your teeth and sink into the couch cushion beside him. No, you know he can. You’d rather he be here, though.

“Why? Afraid I’ll relapse or something?”

No. You trust him.

“Then what?”

Look. Jesse bought his aunt’s house. Big and nice and renovated to mask whatever ate through the upstairs bathroom. But he has no furniture aside from his sleeping bag and you’re not really sure he’s sleeping in it at all. Sure, he passes out after a big meal, but how many hours is he actually clocking in his own house?

Jesse doesn’t have an answer. Your guess is zero. So, just for tonight, maybe he could fall asleep here with significantly fewer ghosts haunting him.

His eyebrows furrow. That and the stubble he’s growing again add a good five years to his face. He opens his mouth, probably to argue, but you’re already up. You run to your room and back with a blanket, clean sweatpants, and a fresh t-shirt.

He knows where the bathroom is and there’s a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, you say.

Jesse sighs. “Are you sleeping out here with me or what?”

No. He’s taking the bed and you’ll crash on the sofa. It’s no big deal.

“Nah, c’mon. We can share.” Jesse won’t meet your eyes. He rubs his fingers over the leg of the sweatpants, testing the fabric.

You ask him if he’s sure; he should know you snore louder than he does.

Jesse plays with the cinched ankle. He’s stretching the elastic. “Yeah. If I’m gonna sleep alone, I might as well go home, y’know…”

Okay. Just checking.

He staggers from the couch and clutches at the material in your hand. You pass it off to him and point him towards the bathroom just in case. Down the hall on the right. It’s the door that doesn’t open to your washer and dryer.

You change in the bedroom. You’re pulling back the covers when Jesse walks in. There’s still toothpaste in the corners of his mouth and his hair is scruffier than before. You and Jesse are about the same size, and the t-shirt is big on both of you. You figured he’d like that.

Jesse asks if it’s cool he plugs his phone in; of course. He still has to go to work tomorrow and it’s his alarm. No problem. He’s going to try to get to it before it wakes you up, because he has to go in pretty early. It’s all okay. Everything’s okay here. He nods.

“So ah, how’re things at the Dairy Queen?” Jesse asks as you climb into bed. You toss the softer pillow onto his side and scoot under the blankets.

Oh, you’re manager’s still busting your ass. You’re pretty sure she’s got a power complex. You think she hired you just to have a scapegoat.

“Scapegoat?”

Yeah, you know, like someone who can take the fall for her even when you didn’t do anything wrong. Your friend works at a chicken place and gets better hours, better pay, and a decent boss, though. You’re thinking of applying.

“Which one?”

Los Pollos Hermanos. It sounds pretty good compared to cleaning out the soft-serve machine every goddamn night--

“No. Not that one. Somewhere else.”

What, is Jesse a vegetarian now? Was this about animal cruelty? Because there were definitely bacon bits in the macaroni, just FYI.

“Just. Please. Not there.” He’s...scared? Pissed? His big blue eyes look wider in the lamplight.

Okay, it’s alright. You’ll probably stick it out at the Dairy Queen for a while anyway. (Jesse relaxes.) Maybe she’ll get fired. _Hopefully_ she’ll get fired. She talks to you like you’re an idiot every shift -- you can only flip her off from behind so many times before it takes a toll.

“What else you got going on? Your mom doing okay?” Jesse’s words are mumbling together. He rests one arm behind his head and slouches into the mattress.

Yeah, she’s alright. Still baking for all the neighbors, even when they aren’t sick. She’s making good money at her factory job and her apartment’s nice. Mom asks about Jesse. Well, not about Jesse, specifically, but about that boy in the garage band you used to hang out with. She means Jesse. You told her he was working at the laundromat, the same shitty story he tried to pawn off on you and his support group.

Jesse’s breathing is slow. His eyes have slipped shut. When he’s not talking, twitching, or nervously bobbing his head, Jesse looks so young. Just like he did when you were in high school, but with some facial hair. Still sad, but not so ragged and washed out. It’s like someone’s leeching the life out of him on the daily. You ease over Jesse and turn his lamp off.

On your side of the bed, you flip your phone open. It’s nine-fifteen. For once, at least, you know he’ll sleep well.


End file.
